Remember
by Azaelynn
Summary: Harry is struck down by a new disease after an attack, and during the little time he has left, he is found in the company of Voldemort, who has a mysterious change of heart. This is the tale of remembrance and forgiveness. HPLV SLASH
1. Chapter 1

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: DUH, AS USUAL

CHAPTER 1

The war against Voldemort continued, and as Harry Potter finished his seventh and final at Hogwarts attacked him, like he did every year, but this time, he had allied himself with a new breed of vampires.

The attack took place on the Dursleys' doorstep, not even a day after the school had let out. It was quick and it was bloody, resulting in five deaths, including the Dursleys themselves, one Auror and a Deatheater. Twenty more were injured, including the Boy Who Lived, who had been bitten by one of the new Fury-Class vampires. That's when everything started to go completely and horribly wrong.

Even though we didn't know it at the time.

But the young wizard hadn't been killed or turned. In fact, it was almost like he hadn't been bitten at all. This bolstered the hopes of the wizarding world, and the war turned to the favor of the side of the Light, driving the darkness back. There were signs, however, of Harry's injury, but they were small signs and easily ignored by those who didn't want to think otherwise.

He grew pale, but he didn't appear sickly, and he began having minor problems with his breathing after a time. His hands would shake just a little bit, unnoticable unless someone devoted themselves to watching over him, like I did. He slept a little more, exhausted, and he started looking a little worn as well. But these signs could easily be passed off as wartime fatigue, so no one really worried too much. Harry also dismissed my concerns with his usual smile that seemed just a little more fake as time went by.

Two years passed and the Dark Lord and his followers were on the run, with Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix close on their heels. It should be noted that during this time, Voldemort was able to find a way to restore his once-human features, turning back the clock, in a fashion and restoring his admiringly charming good looks from his youth. It was almost scary how the Dark Lord and Harry resembled each other. Harry Potter was often seen in the frontlines of the battlefield, Deatheaters and Dark allies falling beneath his wand and Gryffindor's Sword. Albus Dumbledore was usually seen a little further back, further away from the forefront of the fighting.

Then the Final Battle took place. It took place in the ruins of Godric's Hollow, the same location everything started all those years ago. Voldemort only had a few Deatheaters left alive at this point, and all of his allies were either dead or had fled long ago. The Light had also taken several casualties over the years, though not nearly as severe.

Harry had struck at Voldemort head on with all his strength, charging out past the front line of twenty Aurors, and while he was separated from the rest of his veritable army, the Deatheaters had circled their Lord and Harry, as the two clashed swords and formed a shield of unusual strength around them, blocking the two main combatants and the casters of the shield from the Aurors and the Order, only allowing them to watch the battle unfold.

The circle the Deatheaters formed was quite large, allowing for enough space for their Lord and Harry to fight in; in fact, the two hardly noticed the shield going up. The Order could hear everything that went on inside the shield, but it seemed that those behind the shield could not.

No one from the Order had any idea what the purpose of the shield was, but they all doubted that it would bode well for the side of Light one way or another.

The Order of the Phoenix could do nothing but watch as the Deatheaters kept up their shield with a surprising strength and watch as Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort fought with a ferocious determination and strength. They had discarded their wands entirely, and only a few knew the significance of that, including myself. Very few in the Wizarding world knew that Harry Potter and Voldemort shared brother wands, and those two wands would not fight against each other, leaving the two combatants with other means of weaponry, like the swords they were currently using.

For a while, it looked like Harry was winning this battle, driving Voldemort back bit by bit, little by little, and gaining the upper hand on the older wizard. One could almost see the tension rise in the Dark Lord's features as he began to fight a little more desperately, more defensively.

Then it happened.

Harry faltered in mid-strike. He paled quite alarmingly, and his legs shook terribly. He choked and far too much black blood forced its way past his lips. It splattered heavily on the ground, obscenely loud in the sudden silence. The Sword of Gryffindor fell from his hands with a clatter against rubble and he brought his hands to his mouth, trying to hold off the blood. His expressive green eyes, those eyes I have seen for years, widened with distress and resignation, I think, and his knees gave out, making him fall forward, the horrible black blood spilling past his fingers and staining his hands, skin, and clothing, wherever it touched.

But he did not fall. Voldemort dropped in own weapon in startled surprise and caught Harry! He seemed alarmed at the sudden drastic turn of Harry's health, and one could almost see the gears of his mind churning in an effort to try to figure out what had caused the ailment of his enemy.

He looked stricken at the sudden turn of events, as Harry continued to cough up vile black blood, staining his hands and his cloths. One pale hand, now drenched in viscous blood, drifted up to Harry's neck, to where the vampire had bitten him roughly two years ago, and it was then we knew what had happened.

The effects of that bite, nearly all but forgotten to all who knew about it, were starting to show symptoms. But symptoms of what, exactly?

"Time to go! Now!!" The Deatheaters fell back circling their Lord and the shield fell. The gathered members of the Order rushed forward the instant they could, but it was far too late; Voldemort, his Deatheaters, and Harry were gone.

That day was a tragedy for those on the side of Light. Their Hero and Savior had been lost. But that was also the day that the war ended.

_-Excerpt from the journal of Hermione Granger._


	2. Chapter 2

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: DUH

CHAPTER 2

It was odd, to say the least. I had been brought here as a prisoner, for having betrayed everything I had been brought up to believe in, and yet, I was being allowed to live because of my expertise on vampires.

I hadn't attended my last year at Hogwarts because I was busy studying and experimenting on the vampires that had allied themselves to Voldemort, and I had, through a lengthy process of trial and error, created a half dozen super vampires, categorized as Fury-class.

It was my creation that evidently struck down the Boy Who Lived.

Now, to clear up any confusion, I shall attempt to piece together everything that is relevant. Growing up as a child, I had always had the morbid fascination for vampires in general, and my parents nurtured that fascination, since the subject of my obsession was Dark in nature, and by the time I finished my sixth year at Hogwarts, I knew everything there was to know about the Dark beings.

When Voldemort and some of his vampire allies wished to be even stronger, I couldn't refuse the opportunity. With my Godfather's aid, I started theorizing and experimenting on a few dozen volunteers, and other the course of several months, I was able to create six perfect specimens, and they were immediately sent out into battle.

They thrived. Until they met up with Him. Harry Potter, the bloody Boy Who Lived. All of my vampires were killed, completely destroyed. He was just too much for them. I mean, I will readily admit that he is a significantly powerful wizard, powerful than most, and the thing was, I firmly believe that he hid most of his power anyway, in an attempt to be normal.

Of course, before this took place, I betrayed everything I had been working for, when they killed my mother. They called her 'a loose end' that needed to be taken care of. My father killed her, just as I emerged from one of my labs, and he was smiling. I would have called him insane, except for the fact that there was a glimmer of sanity shining in his eyes, and he was... gleeful that my mother was now dead.

I fought tooth and nail. I publicly declared my betrayal, my refusal to do anything else for the Dark Lord, now that my mother was dead. She only stayed silent about my family's Dark activities because of me, and if I was happy doing what I was doing, then so was she.

I must have gone berserk because I took out more than half a dozen of other Deatheaters before they managed to contain me, or so I heard from random other Deatheaters passing by my cell when they thought I was not conscious.

For some reason that I know naught of, they kept me alive for many months, never allowing me to leave my cell, or even see the smallest bit of daylight. The only light I ever saw was the bit of torchlight from under my cell door, and when they lifted the small flap to deliver my food. Whenever they remembered, that is.

I was released two years after my capture, and presented to the Dark Lord, who seemed worried as I was brought in. I knew that I wasn't the cause for his worry, but in my quick observations upon entering the large room, I also couldn't figured out any possible means for his apparent worry.

I knew I was a wretched sight, after two years of imprisonment. My hair was knotted and lank, and my skin was an unhealthy shade of a grayish pale, and I had become terribly thin, barely managing to survive my time confined. And although my body had wasted away to almost nothing, my mind was still exceptionally sharp, and I wondered what my skills were needed for now.

Voldemort then turned his attention to me, and I knew that something was entirely not right with him, well, with his was in normal circumstances. He was different, different in the way he held himself, different in the way he surveyed the room of its occupants, different in a way that was not natural, of any species.

He reminded me terribly of my greatest creations, my Fury vampires.

And I knew then, in that single moment, that he was the greatest of them, and nothing I could have created would ever have surpassed him.

Yet, as he locked his fierce, sharp gaze with mine, I realized that he knew it as well.

"Draco Malfoy. For two years, I have kept you alive for a single purpose, and for two years, I have not had the need to release you from your solitary cell, until now. Now I give a choice; you can either return to your cell and rot there, forgotten and wasted. Or, you can use that great mind of yours for a history making moment, and live. You have five seconds to decide." His tone held no argument, and no mercy.

"What do I have to do?" I asked, as a way of accepting his gracious offer.

"You accept?" The question was a simple confirmation.

"Yes."

He smiled, if somewhat grimly. "Excellent. Then here is your challenge. I want you to find a cure for a certain illness that is as rare as your Fury vampires, an illness that has struck seemingly because of the modified DNA of your Furies, and, luckily, for you, I have your subject."

"How important is it that the subject lives?"

The grim smile was gone, and those eyes held a very dangerous gleam. "Your life will be forfeit should the subject die before a cure can be found."

Very well. I knew the stakes, then. But still, I had to ask one more question, one more to satisfy my unceasing curiosity.

"Understood. Who is the subject?"

"Harry Potter. I need you to ensure his survival."

- _Excerpt from the working journal of Genetic Alchemist, Draco Malfoy_


	3. Chapter 3

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: DUH

CHAPTER 3

I remember well that horrible day when Harry Potter fell. I also remember what had happened, nearly two years previous, to cause his fall. That day will forever be etched into my memory, and I will have to live with the knowledge that it was all entirely my fault.

The war was over that final day, when the blood appeared. I think he would have appreciated that gesture, although it was also somewhat anti-climactic.

I'm not entirely sure why I feel the need to write this, although it has been mentioned that writing down one's thoughts is supposed to help with one's focus, or something to that effect.

He has been here since his collapse. I have kept away from the rest of the world, and only a few people even know he's here. Oh, the rest of the fools on the outside will have assumed that I've killed him by now, but even they cannot find me. I have made certain of that.

I have released the young Malfoy boy to search for the cure. I made it very clear to him the penalty for failure, and I believe that he is curious himself about my important task for him, and is eagerly looking forward to the challenge I know this will and is presenting to him.

At the same time, I must confess that I do not entirely know the reasonings for bringing him here, to my stronghold. I have been trying to kill him for almost his entire life, yet I bring him very deep into unknown enemy territory to save him. It could be pride. All those years wasted with an ailment will... may kill him.

I cannot seem to accept that he will... more than likely perish to this ailment, even when he himself is rather resilient. He has come through in the face of so many obstacles in his young life, for he truly is young still, and maybe that is why this disease is finally killing him. Maybe.

Two years ago, almost to the day, we met again on the battlefield. He was so much stronger than he had been in all of our previous encounters. He was tall, finally hitting his growth spurt, lean with tight, sinewy muscle, and an inner strength exuding from his very core, graceful and stunning to behold. And those brilliant green, green eyes of his, glowing with that passionate fire I remember so well from his mother. She had the same look about her when we met.

I had my newly manufactured Furies with me that day, and they were truly frightening. None could match them, although of the idiots that day tried, and failed. The number of dead was growing by the second, and we had nearly won that fight, until He showed up, apparating into the battle with that damnable sword of his, cutting down everything in his path. Many of his friends were saved that day, saved from my Furies, and one by one, they fell to that sword, their black blood barely even dulling the blade.

I was cursing my way into the thick of the battle, and I could nearly touch him when it happened. One of my injured Furies, missing an arm and half of its torso, lurched to its feet and lunged for him, claws sinking into his neck and clamping down on the exposed flesh with those very dangerous fangs.

His scream of agony brought everything to a halt. I was caught off guard with this sudden turn of events. No one what this meant. I had no idea of the consequences of this moment of time.

The Fury vampire dropped the broken pavement, a conjured dagger embedded into its brain. Blood poured from the open wound, and he brought a hand to cover it, an attempt to slow the bleeding. With a wave of his sword, he killed the remaining Furies, and a few of my Deatheaters as well. He used his blade like he would a wand, and it was magic that came to his protection this time.

I barely managed to deflected his powerfully pure energy, and I was forced to flee from the battle. He had won. But that day would never be forgotten.

For nearly two years, he seemed to thrive in this war of ours. The Fury bite seemed to have no effect on him at all. There was no explaining it. It was starting to look like I may have been defeated for good.

It has been a month since he collapsed. And on that day, I knew it had something to do with that bite he had received. I knew, instinctively, that the bite had been slowly killing him from the inside out, and that he'd been hiding it for a few months, at least.

Which is why I have released my Genetic Alchemist. He can... he will find a way to fix things. Because he cannot die. I refuse to let him die.

Although, I am certain on why I care so much for his survival. He is my opponent, the only wizard to ever truly challenge me, my rival, my reason... that's it. That's why I care so much. I finally figured it out.

Harry Potter is my reason for living.

If he dies, then I will no longer have a reason to keep going. I know that I should have died many years ago. I know that my time has gone. I have done many great, terrible, but great, things in the long span of my life. But I kept going for something, reaching out for something that was unattainable, and he represented everything that I wanted in life.

He is the only thing that I truly desire now, and should he die now, I will surely soon follow.

And I do not believe that I am ready for that, yet.

Nor will I ever be ready for that. Because I refuse to allow him to die, and he shall not disobey me! I am still the Dark Lord!!

Severus was, indeed, correct. It does help to write things down, sometimes, although I will not make it a habit.

Dearest gods... I do not know what to do anymore. I just... I just need him to survive this. I need him. I need him so very much.

_-Excerpt from the journal of the Dark Lord Voldemort_


	4. Chapter 4

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: THE USUAL.

CHAPTER 4

I have been assigned the task to aid young Mr Malfoy in his search for Potter's cure, as he has been infected with the vampiric strain of Draco's, and his symptoms are far from normal. Then again, this IS Potter I'm dealing with. He has always caused far too many problems.

To be completely honest, however, none of Draco's Furies ever turned anyone. They just slaughtered as many as they could. I haven't managed to decipher all of Draco's notes yet, so I am not even certain on whether the Fury Vampires were able to turn and infect others.

Potter hasn't waken yet; he seems to be in a coma-like state, and there is no indication that he will wake.

I am... conflicted on my views. I would like to see that Potter never wakes up, and a cure is never found, and yet, I hope he does persevere through this and he is ultimately cured. I loathe him, and yet, over the years I have protected him. I cannot stand being in his presence, and yet I never stray too far away, either.

Its because of his parents. I hate his father, James, and Potter is so much like him, not only in appearances and skills on a broom. He is very proud in his abilities, and very confident. Very much a Gryffindor, he is. Just like his father.

But in everything that he is like his bullying father, he has tempered with Lily's essence. Compassionate, not bullying. Introspective, but never brooding. Self aware, not arrogant. He always sees the good in people, regardless of their past, just like his mother, who used to be my best friend, until I drove her away into James' arms.

And then, there are his eyes. He has his mother's eyes.

Usually, that's all people will ever say about her, other than that she was a brilliant witch. Which is disappointing, because she was always so much more than that.

If Potter does wake up, I will tell him some stories about his mother, when I knew her as a child. After everything he's been through, he does deserve that much.

Young Malfoy is truly a genius, and he has made some theories already on possible treatments for Potter, and we should be able to start testing as early as tomorrow morning. Although he hasn't worked in nearly two years, he has instantly taken up where he left off in his research, and he works so effortlessly, that I find myself struggling to keep with his mind, and I still have to finish deciphering his notes.

While he will need my Potions Mastery to find the cure, he is truly a Master himself in his field. I - _ink dragged across parchment, as though the writer left abruptly_

Several things of importance happened today. First of all, Potter did show signs of possibly regaining consciousness soon. He is in great pain, that much is for certain. His health has also taken a turn for the worse. He is pale, his skin is drawn, tight across his bones. He looks like he hasn't slept, although that's all he's done, his eyes are so sunken. His breathing is labored now, as well. The Dark Lord was conflicted when he received word. He seemed ecstatic that Potter might wake up soon, but furious at his declining health.

Secondly, The Dark Lord has become ill. It seems just as minor as a mild cold, but it's not. We've run diagnostics, but we can't confirm the illness. It may pass, but I doubt it. Potter and the Dark Lord are too well connected with the other for that.

And lastly, Draco was positively giddy when he returned from the Dark Lord's presence, informing him of his progress. He was sporting a few bruises, but that didn't seem to matter to him. Storming back into the lab where Potter currently resides, thinking aloud a mile a minute, raving on the new avenues that were now present for us to explore into finding a cure, although our time to search is shortened with Potter's health issues. I believe I can stabilize him though.

Draco's excitement was almost contagious. He is very eager to solve our mystery, and willing to ignore the dangers of our possible failure. The thrill of the hunt, so to speak, is overwhelming the fear, and I also believe that Draco is waiting for death, should he fail to find Potter's cure.

At least Potter is beginning to wake from his coma. That is a start, and we have a terribly long way to go yet.

_-Excerpt from the journal of Severus Snape, Potions Master_


	5. Chapter 5

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: DUH.

CHAPTER 5

He is alive, and yet, completely out of our reach, my reach. He is last most important thing left to me in this world, the only thing keeping me from allowing my demons to win my life-long battle.

He is still with the Dark Lord Voldemort, and although the war ended four months ago, and most of the Deatheaters were handed over to the Ministry, Voldemort and a few key Deatheaters still remain at large, and Harry is within their midst. I've seen him, though, during one of his few appearances to the world and he seems happy enough.

That is good enough for me.

I would like to be there for him, though. I owe it to his parents, to James and Lily, and Sirius as well, to keep him safe, even should that be within the company of Voldemort.

He looks ill, and I fear he may not have a lot of time left in this world.

We have worried about him since he was swept away from that battle only months ago. I wasn't able to reach him, wasn't able to help him, but I might be able to see him soon.

His friends have worried greatly for him, nearly giving out on hope. They still worry, and are unable to move on with their lives. Harry would not be pleased to hear his friends were wasting their lives worrying over him. He would have urged them to go one with their lives, settle down, and just live. But they don't seem to care for him to think of what he may want them to do, though it pains me to admit it.

Young Ginny Weasley seems to be the worst of the lot. She is a very beautiful young woman, reminding me very of Lily years ago, and while she has suitors constantly knocking on her door, she can't, or won't, leave her crush on Harry in the past. I am not certain, but Harry might not even be inclined towards women in general, not that I have seen.

She also is under the impression that due to Harry's apparent uncertain health, he is being horribly mistreated, held as a prisoner, and is in desperate need of a rescue. She is vehement in her belief that she must be the one to rescue him, and her family is not discouraging her.

She, and the rest of the Weasley family are being entirely foolish.

Albus is being difficult as well. It is his belief that should we not remove Harry from the Dark Lord's presence soon, Harry may become corrupted and become the next Dark Lord, which we would surely not survive. Only a few of us seem to think that Harry should just be left alone, since he is content to just stay where he is.

Severus is unable to leave Voldemort's side, although I believe that he may have had something to do with Harry, and the concern of his well being. We have heard nothing from Severus in just over four months, right before Harry feel in that horrible battle, but I am not overly worried.

Unknown to anyone, I have sent an owl to Severus, requesting to see him as soon as he is able, since he would be my best method of getting to Harry, barring sending a request to Voldemort.

I hope Harry is happy where he is.

I am growing older, older that I should be, and I may not many more years left in my life. The wolf inside me has decimated my body, and the effects are beginning to show themselves. The only werewolf older than I am was Fenrir Greyback, the beast who infected me, and he was only a decade older. The difference was that he accepted the wolf within; he didn't fight the beast, rather, he embraced it. With my many years of fighting my inner demons, I have spent almost the worth of my life, turning decades of life into mere years, and I am nearing the end. The sun of my life has begun to set, to put it poetically.

It would be my last wish that I could be there with Harry before I die.

I... I am almost looking forward to my eventual death. Sirius is waiting for me on the other side, as is James and Lily. I want to tell them I did my best for Harry, tell them that he was happy, despite everything.

_- Excerpt from the private journal of Remus Lupin_


	6. Chapter 6

REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: THE USUAL.

CHAPTER 6

The first thing he was aware of was the pain. It was a deep, grating pain everywhere he could feel that left him feeling bruised and beaten. He could feel in his bones, pounding against his skull with a dull throb.

He groaned, and tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't, at least, not yet. He heard excited voices around him, but couldn't really understand what they were saying at all. He didn't really understand what was going on, nor could his muddled mind think of, or recall, the circumstances that got him here.

He was positive he recognized the voices above him, but he couldn't place them. He tried so hard to think, but that throbbing wasn't going away, but only getting worse. He groaned again, trying desperately to dispel this blasted headache.

Someone touched his chin very gently, the fingers very skilled and careful. The touch eased him somehow, allowing him to focus a little better.

"Here, drink this. It will help." Something cold, like glass touched his lips, and he obeyed the voice, allowing the warm liquid to pass through his throat down into his empty stomach. Already, he felt so much better.

"Can you open your eyes for me, little one?"

Feeling like he could trust this voice, this person, he tried. His eyes opened slowly, almost resisting his efforts, and the lights were dimmed, making it easier for him. He remembered that he needed glasses, but at the present moment he could count three blurry shapes around him.

One of the shapes settled his glasses on his face, bringing everything into a much sharper focus. The men around his bedside were all achingly familiar, but at the moment, with his mind still trying to cast away the fog.

"How are you feeling?" One of the men asked, his black eyes unreadable. He definitely recognized this man, but couldn't exactly place him yet. He was more than familiar, though.

"Groggy. Can't really think yet." His voice was raw, unused. "What happened?"

"You fell in battle. We have ascertained why it happened as well. How much do you remember?"

He knew who they were, right then. It was like flicking a switch, and the sudden recollection was almost too much for him. He closed his eyes and groaned again at the oncoming headache.

"Everything. Thanks for reminding me. I was blissfully unaware until just now." Even shaky, his voice managed to ooze sarcasm.

"Leave us." Harry looked to his right, to Voldemort, as he commanded Draco and Severus to leave the room. They bowed and left without another word. As the door clicked shut, Harry took his first real look at the Dark Lord, really looking at him.

He had regained his youthful visage, losing the frightful snake face from the war. His eyes were still the deep crimson, but they had lost the hate from before. He looked at ease in his more human appearance.

But Harry could also see beneath the lines and saw that Voldemort wasn't faring too well. There were bags under his eyes, and his skin was pale and drawn across the bones. He looked as bad as Harry felt.

"What happened? I just remember all the blood. I think I had started to fall, too." He watched carefully, trying to read Voldemort as he considered his response.

"I... you startled and scared a lot of people that day. Almost three months ago, actually. Your knees gave way, and I caught you before you could hit the concrete. It was very sudden, very abrupt. I brought here, to my stronghold, and I have had Draco and Severus look for a way to help you." He could barely look at Harry, instead focusing on his own hands.

"But why?"

Voldemort gave a careless shrug. "I truly have no idea. It was as sudden as your extreme decline in health. I just knew that I had no inclination to fight with you anymore. The only thing I wanted to do was getting you to safety."

"So what happens now?"

"I'll be leaving that up to you. But before you make your decision, allow me to inform you of exactly why you collapsed that day." He settled into a chair at Harry's bedside before continuing. "When you were bitten by one of young Mr. Malfoy's Furies, you were infected. We still don't know exactly how, since they never attacked anyone else like they did with you. But something did infect you, and it was a slow acting agent. You should have started showing signs of infection months before you collapsed, or so Draco says at his best estimate, and knowing you as I do, you more than likely concealed the signs."

"I did. I remember starting to feel ill at odd times, or short of breath late at night. There were also times where I would get spasms of sharp pains deep down to my bones." Voldemort nodded as Harry spoke, and the two of them seemed oddly comfortable with the other. "No one ever really noticed that anything might be wrong, not that I allowed myself for them to notice. I wasn't sure of what to make of what was happening at the time."

"No one would have been able to help you, either. The only progress we have made is because of Draco. Since he was the one to create the Fury Vampires, and is a brilliant Alchemist, he was the only wizard I could think of that would be able to help you. While he was creating his vampires, I had all of his notes, and from them, I was able to alter myself into something similar. But I don't think the Furies were entirely stable. We didn't have them long enough to know for certain, but I assume they were destined to fail inevitably. Because of this, since they infected you, well, to put it frankly, you're dying." The Dark Lord said nothing more, waiting for Harry's reaction.

To his surprise, Harry just smiled, barely. "That bad, huh? What about the war?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you won our war when you collapsed. I could have killed you when you showed weakness, but I didn't, and I see taking you from the battlefield as a means of terms of my surrender." He smirked. "As an added bonus, I even delivered many of my own Deatheaters to the Ministry shortly afterwards, with the exceptions of Severus, Draco, and a few minor ones in really excellent locations."

Harry nestled into the blankets of his bed, getting more comfortable. "Do you know how long I have?"

The Dark Lord shook his head. "We don't know for sure. At few months at least, now that you've been stabilized. I will still have Severus and Draco look for a cure, but that doesn't seem to be the course of things. The way that you are deteriorating makes it less likely that a cure will be found for you in time."

Harry's eyes darkened and he looked downed at his hands. "I see."

There were a few minutes of silence, tense and awkward. Voldemort sighed, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. "You know, for someone who's taking the news of their impending death pretty well, you seem depressed at how much time you have left. You really confuse me sometimes."

Harry grinned at him wryly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Only sometimes? I must be losing my touch."

"Don't avoid the question, little one."

He didn't answer right away and sighed. "I've always... I always knew that I was going to die at a young age. I always figured my death would be before I hit my thirties. Before my late twenties, actually. I also knew that I would die before the war ended, but you have proved me wrong on that end. I have accepted the fact that I would die before many of the people I know and care for, and I never expected to survive our last confrontation. But now that our war has ended, and I'm still dying, it just... it just seems like so little time to say goodbye."

There was silence again, but this time it felt more... comfortable. "You've thought about this."

Harry peered at the Dark Lord, a frown creasing his brow. "In my position, wouldn't you have done the same? I was just a child when we fought the first time. I also knew then, in my heart, that I would have to be the one to stop you for good. I hadn't realized it fully back then, but I knew that I would not survive the inevitable. How could I? You were my opponent, my life-long enemy, all powerful with plenty of years of experience, and there I was, stumbling and learning as I went along."

"You do have a point, but I shall make sure that you have enough time to say your final goodbyes. You deserve that much at least. As soon as you are able to stand on your own two feet without help, I will escort you back to the rest of the wizarding world in order for you to get your affairs into order." Voldemort stood from his chair and walked over to the large window that filled the room with sunlight. "After that, you won't even need to return here, if you don't wish to."

Harry watched him; head cocked to the side a little as he considered the man before him. The Dark Lord had changed tremendously over the past couple of months, and the evidence was staggering. Harry had even noticed it during their most recent encounters, just a slight shift in the way he worked, the way he held himself and also in the way he managed the things within his control. The Dark Lord had become less... insane and reckless, and had become more controlled.

Even now, standing at the window, the Dark Lord wasn't Voldemort, per say, but instead it was like he had become a younger Tom Riddle again. He was intelligent, and human, vulnerable. Even now, he seemed resigned that when Harry left the Manor, he would never return.

Harry had two options, really. On one side, he could return to his friends and the wizarding world, and most likely suffer through the pity and anguish of those who viewed him. There would also be many people who would be angry with him for dying, and he would have to suffer through that as well, with no help from his friends. While he considered Ron and Hermione, and Ginny too, to be his best friends, and he loved all dearly, he knew that they didn't see things the way he did. They would worry, and when they thought he wasn't looking there would be pity and sorrow, and even anger. They would try to justify the wizarding world's anger and outrage and it would be a tragedy with so many tears should he die without fighting, without searching for a cure until his last dying breath.

It would be a truly miserable way to live his final days.

And on the other side, he was being offered hope. He could stay with the Dark Lord, who neither worried obsessively about him or pitied him, and be comfortable. He could finally relax, and while he knew that Voldemort wasn't telling him everything, he could be content here. There would be no pressure for anything, and he would have the support he had so desperately needed his whole life during the final moments of his life. if a cure was found in time, then great, but there the actual reality that there wasn't likely a cure. Also, he was very curious about this aspect of the Dark Lord that he had never seen before. It intrigued him, and he seemed to be the last great mystery of any importance left in his life, and he wanted to at least seek after it while he could. Here, he could have no regrets, and be truly content for once.

So he made his choice.

"And what if I decided to stay here?" He asked quietly, a small gentle smile flitting across his face.

Voldemort turned from the window, an unreadable look in his expression, but his eyes glimmered. "You would choose to remain here with me?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. Is it so hard to believe?"

Voldemort had the grace to look guilty. "Actually, yes."

He snorted. "Glad to know you think so highly of me. Despite our history, I feel safer here than I would be elsewhere. Sure, I would have been with those I care about, and those I would die to protect, but I would die sooner there with them than I will here with you. Here, there are going to be no expectations, no pressures for anything. While you said you'll still look for a cure, you know that one won't be found in time, and you have accepted that. They wouldn't be able to accept. I seem to be immortal to most, if not all of them."

He relaxed, his features softening. "I understand what you're saying. I am... relieved that you feel that way. Not many people would say that about me, or the environment I provide."

Harry smiled. "No, I don't suppose many people would."

"Are you sure about this? I mean, staying here?" When Harry nodded again, Voldemort's expression softened and he came back to Harry's bedside. "Good, then start by getting some more rest. It will be a few days at least, maybe a week or two, before you're going to be ready to even try getting out that bed."

At Harry's disgruntled look he laughed softly and left the room. A few moments later, Draco reentered the room with a few things in hand. He placed a few books on the small table, as well as a journal, with a few pens.

Harry studied his old rival as he puttered about the small room. It occurred that Draco and he had not seen each other face to face since their school days, and it surprised him how much the blond had changed since then.

Draco had always been lean, and fit, in shape, but now he seemed gaunt, more skin and bones than anything else. His hair had lost its shine, its luxury, and now it just hung lank on his head, thin and discarded. While still as imperious as ever in his manner, Harry could see that Draco had suffered in the past couple of years.

"Why so curious, Potter?" Draco's sharp, intelligent, gray eyes were fixed on him as he stared. "Why do you stare so, as if viewing a stranger?"

"I feel like I'm seeing a stranger. You resemble the person I knew, but you, I don't recognize you." He said in return just as sharply, watching as Draco's gray eyes dimmed. He wondered exactly what in his words caused the reaction.

"Potter, the answer will always be the same; you happened. Everything in the world changes when you're involved, and that is no different with me. I had created my crowning achievement, and there you were, still invincible, and reducing my work to dust. One thing led to another, and my reason for living was suddenly gone, a by-product of your destruction of my Furies." Draco approached his bed, emotion flashing through his expressive, blank eyes.

"But when disaster finally fell upon me, I wasn't even lashing out at you; I wasn't even thinking about you! Gone was the composure worthy of a Malfoy, and I found myself in a dark, damp cell in Voldemort's dungeons!" Draco waved his hands about in angry motions as he stalked towards him. Harry could only watch him as he raged. "Two years spent in a cell, Potter, until you were brought here and I was released, but with an ultimatum; save you or die. Well, I have gotten you conscious again, but will I be able to save you? To find the cure that you need? I don't think I will be able to."

Harry glared at the blond, sitting up in his bed. His arms shook as he held himself upright, but he ignored it. "So you blame me for your hardships? Well, I'm sorry for whatever loss you've suffered, but at least you'll live through it. Even if you find a cure, it may be too late, I know that, but you'll be able to live for it. I won't. I'm dying, no matter what anyone else wants, including me, and this time, my luck has run out."

That brought Draco's rage to an abrupt halt, and without another word, he slumped heavily into the chair that Voldemort had occupied only minutes before, and he sighed, the sound also heavy. His gray eyes had lost their familiar fire.

"We're quite the pair, you and I," The words were quiet and resigned. "Both of us, we are mere shadows of our former selves. You know, Potter, you are really a great wizard, and I think it infuriates me more now, when you are dying. I am no better, barely, if at all, worthy of the title of Malfoy."

Draco's attitude was starting to irritate him. "Well, how do you define what is worthy of that title you hold so dear? You're the last Malfoy; it's up to you on what that means. You, and you alone, can change the definition of Malfoy if you so desire. No one else matters in that respect and no one should. You're still obscenely rich, you could have so much influence in the world, politically, if not scientifically. You're brilliant, so smart, and you could do whatever you want."

"What's with the speech?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're basing your 'failure' as a Malfoy on the definition other Malfoys before you created. You can change the definition of what it means to be a Malfoy to suit you. I did it with my family name, I'm sure you could do the same."

"So how did you change your family legacy?"

"I don't know about my grandparents, or the Potters before them, but I learned early on that my father was supposedly a great man. Purely the epitome of Gryffindor and all it stands for. Every Potter was a Gryffindor, an Auror, or something with power and always the pinnacle for Light. I learned later that this was not exactly so. My father was a bully, cruel and heartless at times, especially when he was attending Hogwarts. He was arrogant, and reckless, just as Snape always said he was." While Harry had accepted that little family fact for himself, it still hurt to mention it in front of others. "My mother was the one person who changed him, made him into the great man people remember, and so I choose to live in her example, although she was not a Potter by blood. The way she lived is the way that I choose to define the Potter line."

"And you think that I could do the same?" Draco asked quietly, contemplating his words.

"Of course! You're the only one that matters, so take matters into your own hands. And about what you said earlier, about how your life depends on my survival, well, I'll see what I can do to get that changed, since my survival isn't guaranteed. Because, if there is no cure, then I don't want anyone else to die because of me." He looked away from the blonde wizard, to the sun setting outside the window. "That's the last thing I want in my pathetic life."

Draco laughed. "If you want to think that your life was pathetic, then let me tell you something. You're wrong. You're one of the better people in the world, but if you tell anyone, I will deny every word. I have to go, research and trying to save your life, and all."

He made to leave Harry's room, and paused just inside the doorway. "Get some sleep. You've got a long way ahead of you yet."

A/N: SIXTH CHAPTER. FINALLY. WORKING ON THE NEXT ONE, BUT IT MAY TAKE SOME TIME, AS I DO HAVE REAL LIFE ISSUES TO WORK THROUGH, AND A JOB, AND SCHOOLING TO THINK ABOUT. PLEASE HAVE PATIENCE. THANK YOU FOR READING.


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